The Cowslip Is A Country Wench.

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

I Resolved That, Like The Sun, As Long As My Day Lasted, I Would Look On The Bright Side Of Everything.

Tis Like The Birthday Of The World, When Earth Was Born In Bloom; The Light Is Made Of Many Dyes, The Air Is All Perfume: There's Crimson Buds, And White And Blue, The Very Rainbow Showers Have Turned To Blossoms Where They Fell, And Sown The Earth With Flowers.

Our Very Hopes Belied Our Fears, Our Fears Our Hopes Belied; We Thought Her Dying When She Slept, And Sleeping When She Died.

Experience Enables Me To Depose To The Comfort And Blessing That Literature Can Prove In Seasons Of Sickness And Sorrow.